(History!AU, WW2!AU) JeanMarco
Jean was a servant.
One wouldn't call him that when you first met him, if you met him- or rather- when you met him.
He was a slave- a slave tasked with bringing souls to the underworld- to guard the gates as the souls of the dead were judged.
He was one of many who would follow you until your death. Humans named them 'Guardian Angels' but that was bull.
The only thing they protected you from was living.
"It's a boy!"
Incessant screaming of a baby.
It annoyed Jean to no end- as a winged deliverer of souls, hearing your watch come into this world to die in what seemed to be the blink of an eye- was annoying.
Some wrote their stories down and sold them as human authors, giving them titles of 'Realistic Fiction'- but no one he had ever watched was interesting.
None of them came to run a company or marry a prince, they normally ended up with office jobs, dying of a heart attack.
Why did all the others get the exiting ones?
Great. ANOTHER one.
"Perfectly healthy." A soothing voice read to a mother.
Jean exchanged glances with another 'Guardian Angel'- Annie- who was watching the nurse as she moved.
Six days later, the baby was out of the hospital.
The mother was overjoyed.
Soon, the little boy was in front in front of his eyes.
He flew above as he climbed up a metal ladder, handing an open paint can to his father, who put a dot of paint on the child's nose.
A paint fight ensued- Levi stared as Marco whined, his mother pulling the tiny bits of paint out of his hair.
He sat in the empty wooden desk behind Marco as he went to her first day of second grade, reading words in fluent german to a stuffy teacher, who wore a swastika on her right arm and gave the boy a hating stare, despite her reading being seemingly without fault.
He stared over his shoulder as the young boy wrote in cursive letters on his homework sheet, trying hard to pay attention and understand the words- but desperately wanting to ditch the books and go play outside.
He had tried to shield the child as boys who used to be his friends threw stones at him in the streets, breaking his rusted bicycle that he couldn't afford to fix, sending him into a muddy ditch.
No one bothered to help him up.
Jean reached a hand put to help the boy, but MARCO stared determinately straight past him with a determined look.
That's when he realized Marco wasn't a child anymore.
He had watched in horror along with Marco as he was given one small handbag, then thrown onto a crowded bus, after watching his family shot dead in their home after resisting arrest.
It was only him now.
Jean tried to steal food for Marco, sickly and pale, who had given his own meal of 1/4 of a turnip to a woman who's baby was due soon.
Jean cried as the boy had his legs broken and was dragged into a 'shower'. A shower of poison, who none escaped frim.
Jean's kind sat and watched, all stone-faced and looking expectantly for their next assignment, giving up on these people already.
He had felt the same way before- why was he feeling differently? Why was he feeling? Why did tears roll down his pale face as the other's sat cold and unblinking?
He cried because the life of this boy was full of potential.
Jean couldn't stand it. He would never- he COULD never-
He reached out for the brave boy's hand, laying bleeding on the stone floor, brown eyes glazed over...as white fog rolled in the room, and soon, the brown eyes were blank, staring into nothing.
"Who are you?"
Jean didn't look up. He couldn't- how could he, when tears were rolling down his face? How could he, when his watch was dead?
"Why are you crying, Mister?"
"Why are you crying, Mister?" The boy said, having stopped his bike to talk to the child weeping in an alley.
"I'm Henri. My Paw is dead, an' no one 'll take me in. I'm hungry."
"I'm sorry for your loss." Marco said.
"No you ain't! Ya ain't even met me 'fore now. Why you care?" The child said.
"I care because we are all brothers and sisters. Family takes care of each other. So stop your crying, and ride home with me! You'll be okay!" Marco said, smiling a gap-toothed smile.
Only he would say something as cheesy as that,Jean thought in exasperation.
"'Anks." The child said, grinning, and hopping on the silver bike.
The kid pushed off, riding quickly.
"HEY SILLY! MY HOUS IS THAT WAY!" Marco laughed at the kid speeding down the street.
"I AIN'T GOIN' TO YO' HOUSE JUDE!" Henri laughed, making fun of the yellow star on Marco's jacket, riding quickly away. "DAMN YOU TO HELL JUDE!"
That night, Marco came back to his house without his bike. Upon request if where it was, Marco smiled and said, "I gave it to a friend, so they wouldn't cry!"
He was scolded slightly for giving his bike away, but nothing warmed the hearts of her parents on their final days.
"Fine." Jean said, wiping his eyes in a vain attempt to clear the free-flowing tears.
"You don't look fine. Are you okay?"
Jean opened her eyes, and saw Marco, bright eyed and well, wearing old clothes, and his small head was cocked in confusion.
"You died." Jean said simply. Not believing his eyes. "You died!"
"I know." Marco said, a slight smile forming across his face.
Now it was Jean's turn to stare. Most went ballistic when he told people, screaming and clawing for 'JUST ONE MORE DAY' or 'THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!'
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you afraid of me? I am evil looking. Vile compared to you."
"Your clothes are a bit dark. But you are my angel who's taking me to see my family right? So I won't ever be scared."
An image of a teenage Marco suddenly came into his vision, waving an American flag, standing and letting water's spray hit his tanned and freckled face as his ship pulled onto Ellis Island.
A image of Marco staring into someone's eyes, being lead in a slow dance at a ball.
Bunch of bread in his bike's basket, laughing and listening to the sounds of the street.
An image of Marco sitting by the water, trousers pulled up as he looked for seashells, screeching in pleasure as a wave hit his back.
An image of Marco waving a protest sign for gay rights.
An age of Marco in a bed staring out a window, as his eyes closed for the last time, wrinkled lips pointing skyward in a smile.
"Why are you crying? I didn't hurt you, did I? Sometimes talking about family makes people cry." He said, mulling over the fact.
Jean hardly noticed the trail of tears streaming down his cheeks in rivers.
"I don't have a bike to give you to make you feel happy."
"Marco."
"Yes Mister?"
"Would you like one more minute?"
"A minute of what?"
"To live."
"Why would I need a minute?" Marco asked simply.
"Would you like to see the rest of your days? Do you want to get married like you were supposed to?"
"That's cheating. No one else gets one minute. I'm good. No one needs me on earth anymore- everyone's dead. I-I'm dead."
Marco was smiling, but a small tear ran down his cheek.
"No! People DO need you! Your husband, or wife- your children- people WANT to see you LIVE Marco!"
"I can't let other people cry- cry at me cheating. My life is over. It's time for me to move on."
Jean had never sobbed harder- sobbed at this perfect boy. He didn't deserve to watch over him. He didn't deserve to bring this poor soul to be judged.
"I don't need a minute. I don't need any more minutes. But if you could give it to a boy named Henri, he has a little sister to take care of. She was riding his bike and got-"
"THAT'S NOT HIS BIKE! IT'S YOURS!" Jean said, the strands of his hair swooping and bobbing across his forehead with the force of his cries. His wings were clutched around him protectively. "HOW ARE YOU SO SELFLESS?! HOW COULD YOU GIVE UP YOUR FUTURE FOR A GUY WHO CURSED YOU AND SPAT AT YOU IN THE STREET?!"
"Because. Everyone deserves a second chance. And I'm sure he can change his thieving ways, and become a better person!"
"STOPPPPP! STOOOOPPPP!" Jean said, covering his ears. "STOP BEING SO PERFECT!" He begged.
"TAKE A MINUTE! Please!" His voice dropped into a whisper. "Please!"
"Guardian angel? Don't cry." Marco said. "Take me away now."
The deed was done.
Jean dried her tears and watched the next birth under his watch- now with a vial of ash around his neck- the ashes of a soul named Marco.